


Bringing Down the House

by SylvanWitch



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Crack, Episode: s01e04 Of Banquets Bastards and Burials, First Time, Future Fic, Getting Together, Goes AU after that, Limericks, M/M, Swordplay, injudicious use of wall sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-25 07:20:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22232236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanWitch/pseuds/SylvanWitch
Summary: Years later, Jaskier's apprentice bard tells the story of how Jaskier and Geralt got together.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 20
Kudos: 170





	Bringing Down the House

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for nothing. ;-)

Once upon a time, Jaskier was content with his lot in life.

Well, not content, precisely, but comfortable.

Well, no, not really. Let us say ‘getting by.’

So…

Once upon a time, there was a bard who made his living singing songs with deeply relatable stories of real people undergoing everyday trials.

If by ‘living’ one means ‘stale rolls’ and the occasional tumble with a stableboy.

The former meant food in his belly, no matter how unappealing, and the latter meant a night in a warmish hayloft, no matter how louse-ridden.

Okay, so it wasn’t ideal.

But Jaskier made it work. Or, at least, he made it look good.

(No one can argue with that.)

And then into a pub on the edge of the world wandered a tall, pale, and brooding stranger, and the bard’s life changed overnight.

(If by ‘changed’ one means ‘got a lot more dangerous’ and if by ‘overnight’ one substitutes ‘after a period of violence and captivity.’)

But really, who’s quibbling over semantics?

Jaskier didn’t have words for the way his life had been transformed by Geralt’s introduction into it. While on the whole he’d prefer not to be pummeled to within an inch of his life by horned creatures, rebel elves, and grouchy Witchers, he had to admit that being friends with Geralt had some benefits.

Chief among which was the magnificent ass on display before him as the Witcher climbed into the tub to soak the cold of a lake out of his bones (and sluice selkimore guts out of his long, white hair).

Had someone told Jaskier even a few months ago that he’d be rubbing chamomile into the distressingly tight ass of a disgustingly fit monster hunter, he’d have…

Well, not laughed in their faces, precisely. I mean, it has potential, right? The makings of a real…

_There once was a Witcher named ‘Hmmm’  
Whose fabulous ass was quite plum  
He sat in a bath  
I put salve on his ass  
And now I’m going to be a mum._

No, that’s not quite…

Anyway, there said Witcher was, naked as the day he was born—more scarred, of course, and considerably larger, particularly in the...sword…department—but essentially the way the gods and his mutant-creating masters had intended.

And there was Jaskier, our hapless hero, whose thoughts were full of the muscular rump he’d just been handling.

Could he be blamed for what next blurted from him?

“Geralt?”

“Hmmm?”

“Have you ever…?”

Eyebrow.

“That is, do you like to…”

Other eyebrow.

“ _Wouldyoueverwanttoplowmyasswithyourmightyblade_?”

Given the proximity of Geralt’s eyebrows to his hairline already, it’s not surprising that Jaskier lost sight of them for a bit there. When at last a discernible expression returned to Geralt’s face, Jaskier considered the odds of reaching the door before Geralt could launch himself from the tub and reduce Jaskier’s own endowments to jelly.

So, Jaskier did what any bard worth his salt might when faced with almost certain death-by-Witcher.

“Not plow—play! And did I say _blade_? I mean, what is that, even? A mixed metaphor, that’s what! And I call myself a bard. Bard! More like hack, am I right? Only a hack would mix agricultural and martial imagery. So obviously, that’s not what I meant to say at all. I’m sure I meant, ‘Would you ever want to play _myass_ with your mighty blade,’ myass being the little known but revered and ancient Nilfgardian sport of kings, wherein you take your naked blade and swing it about in the general direction of a second, equally naked blade and then—”

Alas, the world will forever be deprived of learning the exact rules of Nilfgardian Myass, largely because the bard’s tongue was wholly occupied in something far more athletic just then than talking ever could be, even for one with as agile and pert a tongue as Jaskier’s.

When he reclaimed said tongue and regained his breath some time later, he was pleased to discover two things.

First, Geralt’s massive blade was poking Jaskier most stridently.

And second, the Witcher had managed to remove a significant majority of selkimore guts from his face before he’d kissed Jaskier breathless, a state that could only improve the next thing Jaskier had in mind, namely fastening his teeth on Geralt’s lower lip and tugging.

(He’d always wanted to do that. The little dip there beneath the lip—Who wouldn’t like to put his mouth there and— But I digress…)

Geralt made a noise that in other contexts—the clothed and weaponed kind—might be terrifying but in this particular one was quite gratifying.

And then Jaskier was being hoisted up Geralt’s body.

No fool, at least where gravity was concerned, Jaskier wrapped his still-clothed legs around the Witcher’s prodigious and much-vaunted ass and said, “Oof!”

That had not been what he’d originally intended to declaim. In fact, he’d recovered sufficient wit to compose a series of seductive suggestions, some of which were even anatomically probable but none of which he got to share, the air having been driven out of him by his back meeting the wall beside the door.

What followed can be called nothing other than a ravaging of his mouth and jawline and throat, and what with humping Geralt’s rampant staff and trying not to hyperventilate, Jaskier must be forgiven for his lack of eloquence—so shocking in a bard otherwise storied for his exceptional narrative prowess.

By the time Geralt ceased his assault—largely because he’d been frustrated by Jaskier’s clothing—Jaskier was a quivering mass of need and love-marks utterly incapable of putting two words together, never mind protesting Geralt’s reckless disregard for Jaskier’s lovely but limited wardrobe.

His shirt in tatters, he breeches around his ankles, his smalls nowhere to be found

(that one’s not Geralt’s fault; Jaskier hadn’t had a chance to visit the laundress lately)

Jaskier felt Geralt’s enormous, callused grip engulfing his own, not insignificant blade seconds before Geralt growled, “Jaskier,” and licked a broad wet stripe from his collarbone to his ear.

Jaskier bucked in Geralt’s arms, which led to a delightful increase in the Witcher’s grip. Finger marks bruising into welts on his bum, Jaskier said, “Yes,” without really thinking through the reality of the situation.

Later, the village was to experience a peculiar and short-lived recession when many of the village men lost money in the vicious betting that broke out over whether the noise they heard that night was a werewolf or a striga. 

Smart money was on the twee little bard who went ’round singing moon-eyed ballads about the Witcher’s skill with his weapon, but as precious few of the village men could honestly be described as ‘smart,’ it was Little Thomas, the baker’s son, who whistled his way out of town in search of adventure on the winnings, while sore losers cursed his luck and made unkind assessments of his parentage, intelligence, and future.

As it happens, Tommy had been right, in fact, and also wrong.

The noise Jaskier made when Geralt breached him in a single thrust made smooth by the liberal application of chamomile salve did, in fact, carry throughout the village.

But there was also a werewolf lurking in the woods to the west. Alas, poor Thomas.

Geralt reached his own satisfaction with only a grunt, of course, which yet spoke volumes to Jaskier’s somewhat damp and much-nibbled ear.

Unfortunately for the pair, they were not allowed long to grapple with their new-found feelings, for that final mighty thrust had weakened the wall against which they were tussling, and at the moment of Geralt’s highest ecstasy, the whole wall gave way, along with half the upstairs hallway.

It was, one might say, a precipitous let-down.

The villagers in the tavern, who’d just lost a great deal of money to a certain baker’s boy, surrounded the stunned and dusty pair to fling imprecations and raise fists and knives against the lovers.

The song that came of Geralt of Rivia staving off the drunken assault by brandishing his swords, both big and small, in their stunned faces made Jaskier a pretty penny in taverns up and down the continent, and thereafter the two were inseparable.

(Except for that time in Novigrad, which is best left unsung, and that other instance, minor, really, when Jaskier got himself exiled to the far corners of the continent and Geralt had to start a slave revolt to rescue him. Oh, and how could one forget the Essenwald Incident, which pales in comparison only to the Reaving of Ravendown? And then the whole misunderstanding with the horse and the Queen of Temeria, but that could hardly be called Jaskier’s fault, and besides, the horse was already dead.)

But, you know, for the most part, they lived happily ever after.

Which is how your father met your da, young sir, and how it is that yours truly came to prentice at the great bard’s knee.

The End.


End file.
